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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29450082">Cake &amp; Tea, Over The Years</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/glockmonkey/pseuds/glockmonkey'>glockmonkey</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Apocalypse, Canon Asexual Character, Canon Bisexual Character, Canon Compliant, Canon Queer Character, Canon Queer Relationship, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Set in Episodes 180-181 | Upton Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives), Spoilers, Upton House (The Magnus Archives), Valentine's Day</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 18:41:25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,340</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29450082</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/glockmonkey/pseuds/glockmonkey</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Martin set the container and mugs down on Jon’s desk.</p><p>“And… two mugs?” asked Jon.</p><p>Martin reddened slightly. “I felt like it’d be kind of depressing to celebrate Valentine’s without friends.”</p><p>Friends? Is that what they were? Jon took his mug from Martin carefully. </p><p>“Thank you,” he said finally.</p><p>“No problem,” said Martin, and opened the container. </p><p>Inside were two slices of vanilla cake, decorated messily with… what? Buttercream icing? It was too pink to tell the flavour. Scattered on top were tiny, pink-and-red sprinkles. </p><p>Jon picked one up and took a bite, sans plate. From a mix, probably, but good all the same. <br/>---<br/>Jon and Martin celebrate Valentine's Day. I kick myself for hopping on the bandwagon.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>92</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Cake &amp; Tea, Over The Years</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Content warnings are:</p><p>-Isolation<br/>-Brief panic (unresolved)<br/>-Hospitals &amp; Comas<br/>-Food<br/>-Spiders<br/>-Brief mentions of the apocalypse<br/>-Implied abuse (past)<br/>-Dissociation<br/>-Memory loss (present, but only slightly addressed)<br/>-Spoilers, up to episode 182</p><p>Enjoy, and happy Valentine's! I know I posted this late for UK folk, but better late than never :)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>2016</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The day had been… oddly quiet. Too quiet, really, for February 14th in the archive.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim had been hard at work nearly all day, and Jon was beginning to worry. He knew what Tim’s holiday celebrations were like; streamers, cake, and more often than not, some genre of costume.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But today, as far as Jon could tell, was… normal. The walls were nearly bare, the cupboards were devoid of candy hearts, and Tim was dressed as normally as he ever could be.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Which was to say, in a heart-patterned button-up.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon found this suspicious. He had been expecting worse.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So, he’d been hidden away in his office for the past few hours. The door was locked - a drastic precaution, but a necessary one. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He raised his fingers from his computer keyboard for a moment, concentrating on the atmosphere of the assistants’ room on the other side of the wall. Silence.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There was a knock on the door.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Who is it?” asked Jon suspiciously.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Just me,” said a voice from the other side. “Oh! Um. Martin.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Only you?” he asked, walking towards his office door cautiously.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes..? I made tea.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon relented and opened the door.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>True to his word, Martin stood alone in the hallway. In one hand, two mugs of tea. In the other, a Tupperware container.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon began to grow suspicious once more, and made to shut the door.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Martin seemed to anticipate this, and stepped inside before Jon's hand could touch the handle.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon cursed himself internally. “What’s in the container?” he asked.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, um. Just some baking I brought in. Since, you know,” Martin cleared his throat awkwardly. “Valentine’s Day, and all.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I see,” said Jon.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We were eating it in the assistant’s room, and Sasha tried to surprise you with some earlier-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ah,” muttered Jon. So that was what the knock had been about.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“-but I think your office was locked? Anyways, I felt like you might want one, so…” Martin set the container and mugs down on Jon’s desk.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And… two mugs?” asked Jon.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Martin reddened slightly. “I felt like it’d be kind of depressing to celebrate </span>
  <em>
    <span>Valentine’s </span>
  </em>
  <span>without friends.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Friends? Is that what they were? Jon took his mug from Martin carefully. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Thank you,” he said finally.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No problem,” said Martin, and opened the container. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Inside were two slices of vanilla cake, decorated messily with… what? Buttercream icing? It was too pink to tell the flavour. Scattered on top were tiny, pink-and-red sprinkles. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon picked one up and took a bite, sans plate. From a mix, probably, but good all the same. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Why was your office door locked, anyways?” asked Martin, through a mouthful of cake.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon grimaced. “I feel like he’s still going to pull something. A prank, of some kind.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well, if he’s planning to, I’ve heard nothing about it.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon sagged in relief. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“All that for fear of a prank?” asked Martin.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You haven’t seen what he’s capable of.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Martin laughed.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As if on cue, there was a </span>
  <em>
    <span>pop</span>
  </em>
  <span> from the open doorway. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Above them, coloured paper rained down.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Jesus!” yelped Jon. His eyes caught on Tim, holding a confetti popper triumphantly,  and on Sasha, peeking in behind him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Martin covered his tea defensively, but he was grinning.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You owe me five quid, Sasha!” cried Tim.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes, yes, you caught Jon unawares,” she muttered good-naturedly, handing over the bill.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And now,” said Tim grandly, “the festivities begin.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon suppressed a groan.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>---</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>2017</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon had been poring over Melanie King’s second statement when he heard footsteps in the Archive. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Shit. It could be anything- anyone. Tim, at best. The archive’s monster of the week, at the absolute worst. Sasha, or… Not-Sasha, he supposed (who was to say), at the healthy middle.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>In case it was either of the latter, he took hold of a rather hefty book, in defense.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Footsteps around the corner. Footsteps through the aisle. Jon tried to keep his breathing steady and silent.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The sound came, finally, within view, revealing: </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Martin. It was just… Martin.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon tried not to show his relief as Martin settled on the floor beside him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What are you working on?” Martin asked. More out of politeness than genuine curiousity, Jon assumed, but he replied anyway.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Miss King’s statement from yesterday,” he muttered, in a tone less bitter than he had hoped. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ah,” said Martin.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Mm-hmm,” hummed Jon, not looking up from his work.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I, um. Brought you something,” said Martin nervously.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Did you?” he asked, confusedly, before his eyes landed on the mug Martin was holding out to him. “Ah. Thank you.” He took it, and turned back to the pages he had laid out on the floor.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Martin pushed another object his way, covering the sentence he was reading. Jon grunted in annoyance, but then noticed what it was.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Cake?” he asked, confusedly.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You know what day it is, right?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“A birthday?” Jon asked, and then kicked himself mentally.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“February 14th,” said Martin. He sounded a tad offended, as though it </span>
  <em>
    <span>were</span>
  </em>
  <span> his birthday.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” said Jon.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You forgot, didn’t you?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Maybe a little bit,” muttered Jon, and took the proffered plate. Chocolate, this time. Still decorated with tacky hearts, but he didn’t mind much.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They ate in silence for a few minutes, brushing crumbs under the shelf they were sitting against. Jon couldn’t remember the last time he had taken a genuine break, outside of sitting aimlessly, too distracted to put pen to paper. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“This can’t be comfortable, sitting on the floor,” said Martin.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t mind it, much,” said Jon. “Though my back does, unfortunately.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Mind telling me why you’re hiding out in here? You have a perfectly good office.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I needed a change of atmosphere,” said Jon. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“There’s something else,” said Martin, squinting in mock suspicion. “Scared of Tim’s endeavors again?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon grunted. “Something like that. Let’s not talk about it,” he said.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” said Martin. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Thanks for the cake, by the way,” said Jon softly. “The tea, too.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Anytime.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>---</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>2018</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Martin knew he wasn’t supposed to be here. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>shouldn’t</span>
  </em>
  <span> be here.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Yet here he was. Again.. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Peter was going to let him have it, later, he knew that. Valentine’s with another person! </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lonely avatars were supposed to stay inside, today. Restaurants and parks were probably acceptable, but only for the purpose of watching other people’s friendship until you were choking on the Forsaken’s fog at a table for one. Until your hands were near-frozen around your glass.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But no. No, Martin was not going to do that. Even if his current Valentine’s plans involved just as much fog, maybe more, than if he had decided to spend it alone.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He burrowed further into his scarf, pressing his gloved hands tighter around his paper cup. Hospital courtesy. He should have been grateful for it, really, but it just made him think of worse things than the warmth it brought his cold, cold hands. Better things, technically, but nostalgia was one and the same, these days.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He looked at Jon, hands folded neatly over his blanketed chest. Martin hated it. It reminded him of the dead - he </span>
  <em>
    <span>wasn’t</span>
  </em>
  <span> dead, not really. Not technically. He couldn’t be.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Martin didn’t know if he could stand to bear the alternative.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’d already been acting as though he was, though, and he knew it. He’d stopped pressing post-it notes to the back of Jon’s office door when Peter wasn’t looking. He’d stopped walking halfway down the basement stairs, hoping that Jon would come rushing up them in that hurried way he always had.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Everything about Jon was lagging, now. Everything was slowed down. His absent pulse. His hair, growing sluggishly and more wild than he ever would have let it become.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Martin was growing inert, too. It seemed any day now he’d grow frozen to his chair, in his tiny, lonesome office on the fourteenth storey of the Magnus Institute.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He placed a slice of cake on Jon’s bedside table, already laden with plastic flowers. He knew it would be taken away by the hospital staff sooner or later, but he didn’t care.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Happy Valentine’s, Jon,” he said quietly, and then gathered his things and left.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>---</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon couldn’t find Martin anywhere. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It wasn’t a shock to him, really. Basira had already filled him in, more or less, on the current situation.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It still hurt, though. To know Martin knew he was back. To know he was avoiding him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“He disappears, sometimes,” she had said wistfully, a few days prior. One of the only times she’d talked to him in the recent days, out of something other than necessity. “Didn’t know he could. I guess he really is avoiding us.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon had excused himself hastily, and the subject hadn’t been touched again. Much.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He knew it was hopeless when he brought the plastic container to the Institute. It wasn’t like Martin was going to magically appear, even with a promise of cake. It was doubtful the other archival assistants would touch them either.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Still. Here he was. In Martin’s shiny new office, mugs in one hand, container under his arm.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The walls were drab, eggshell white. The only spot of colour in the room was the Institute-provided office chair, and even that was a dull blue. Christ, there wasn’t even a </span>
  <em>
    <span>window</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon thought, wistfully, of Martin’s desk in the archives. There were no colourful pens or eccentric mugs here, only 2b pencils and piles upon piles of paperwork.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The fog was horrible, too. It ate through Jon’s thin cardigan, making him wish he’d worn something warmer for February. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He placed the container and a full mug on Martin’s desk.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I Know you’re here, Martin,” he whispered. An assumption, really. “Even if I can’t see you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He took a sip of his rapidly cooling tea. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I know it’s nearly the end of the month. But I… I wanted to repay you, somehow.” He thought of what Martin had left in his hospital room, only a few days prior. He opened the container. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Bon appetit,” he said, laughing halfheartedly to himself. A pitiful scene of himself he was making, he knew. “I made it from scratch. I hope it’s okay.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon pulled his cardigan tighter around himself. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Happy Valentine’s Day, Martin,” he said to the empty room. “Please come back.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There was no response, save for the thick fog that continued gathering in the air.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>---</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>####</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Martin had had to kick Annabelle out of Salesa’s kitchen for the morning. While she still hadn’t said anything to his face, he’d found enough spiders roaming the counter to know she was annoyed. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>At least she was merciful enough to warn her arachnids away from the batter.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Martin had never been a particularly good baker. Cooking, he was capable of, sure. Lord knew he’d had to learn.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He still wasn’t quite sure how long he was supposed to mix batter, or what utensils he should be using, but it was fine. Cake mix he could do, right?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As it turned out, baking cake from scratch was much more difficult.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He was on his third attempt when Annabelle appeared in the doorway.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What do you want?” Martin snapped. Mostly out of general spite, but partially because the </span>
  <em>
    <span>goddamn batter</span>
  </em>
  <span> had gotten on his jumper, </span>
  <em>
    <span>again.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You should be spraying down your pan,” said Annabelle. “With olive oil, or something.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Martin looked in the direction of the empty cake pan, sans grease. “Oh.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Also, is that a tablespoon in your hand?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“For salt?” she asked, clearly holding back a grin.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Fine!” he cried, raising his hands from the bowl he’d been mixing. “Can you help me?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Annabelle said nothing.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Please?” he tried.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Annabelle uncrossed her arms, and strode over to the kitchen counter. “Well,” she said. “Since you asked so nicely.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>---</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon was in the same place he had been that morning; on the sofa, book in hand, the mug of tea next to him long ago gone cold.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It looked like he’d made some progress in his book, at least, so Martin told himself not to worry.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It wouldn’t stop him, really, and he knew they would have to address it sooner or later. Jon’s dizzy spells. His lack of general presence. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He didn’t, though. Not today.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Martin sat next to him on the sofa. Jon didn’t look up. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey,”  he said softly. Jon started, and hastily lowered his novel.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hi,” said Jon.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Did Salesa tell you what day it is?” Martin asked, slinging an arm around Jon’s shoulder. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon sank into it. “I wasn’t aware he was keeping track,” he said.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“He’s got a calendar on the wall. It’s got pictures and everything.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh?” asked Jon, turning back to his book. “Of what?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ships and things, but that’s not the point.” Martin’s mouth twitched mischievously. “It’s February 14th.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It is?” asked Jon monotonously. Realization dawned on his face. “Oh. It is, isn’t it.” He sighed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t get - er, make you anything.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“S’okay,” said Martin, honestly. “I didn’t know until yesterday, either.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Mm.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I did make you something, though,” said Martin.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Did you?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He passed Jon a plate and a mug from the coffee table.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You- Oh!” Jon beamed, dazed but genuine. Martin could have bottled that smile.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“With real plates and everything,” he said instead. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He watched as Jon tentatively took a bite. “This is from scratch, isn’t it?” asked Jon incredulously.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Martin felt his face grow hot. “Annabelle helped a bit.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Nice of her.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, well.” Martin picked up his slice. Chocolate, with custard filling. Annabelle had made the filling; Martin had burnt it, the first few times. “Enemy of my enemy, and all that.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“In which case your common enemy is cake,” said Jon, nodding.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You get it.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I still feel bad I didn’t get you anything,” said Jon.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Don’t worry about it.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I suppose there’s always next year,” said Jon.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I suppose,” said Martin, and pecked Jon on the cheek. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Jon.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey, don’t get cake on my face,” said Jon. “Happy Valentine’s.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I love you,” said Martin softly.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon leaned further into Martin’s side. “I love you too.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>And then Jon forgot it all &lt;3</p><p>Thank u to my bro @m0nsters for helping me out with ideas for this!!</p><p>Feel free to drop by my tumblr @ glockmonkey to tell me what you thought of the fic! :)</p><p>Have a great day and remember to drink water!!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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